


mark this house as home

by socialiststeverogers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression-era, M/M, Memories, Post-Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, also weird history things, winter soldier spoilers sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:25:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socialiststeverogers/pseuds/socialiststeverogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's memories pull him back home, to wait for Bucky. Bucky sends a message, but in the last possible way Steve would have expected. It says more than he'd ever hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mark this house as home

Just after he got out of the ice, Steve had been faced with the choice of where he wanted to go. SHIELD had offered to foot the bill on an apartment anywhere he wanted. In fact, they had gone so far as to assign a trainee agent, recruited out of some sort of fancy business school, to help him muddle through the process of buying a house. The kid had shown up to Steve’s temporary rooms at SHIELD headquarters with a folder full of pictures of options in Brooklyn and Manhattan. It was a reasonable assumption; even in this new age Steve still showed telling signs of being a Brooklyn boy, and Brooklyn boys tended not to stray far from home. It was only when Steve sat down at a table to look at pictures of a city he no longer really recognized that he realized he didn’t want to go back. It was too much, to force himself into a half-familiar world when it was so much easier to try and start from scratch. He stayed in DC, got SHIELD to fork over the dough for an apartment in an up-and-coming neighborhood with a view of the Capitol, and settled down to find some scratch to start with.

Then Bucky showed up.

Bucky might not have been himself, but his effects on Steve were the same as they’d always been; energizing, all-consuming, and inevitably devastating. Steve woke up in his hospital bed knowing that the frame of mind he’d existed in since his unfreezing was completely gone. He’d thought that he’d been making progress, integrating past with present, building himself a new world he could reconcile his old one with. Lying in his bed, listening to Sam discuss the finer points of R&B, Steve made a list of the things he’d done to catch up: visited Peggy, watched new movies, bought a computer, read up on the end of World War II, and modern politics, visited museums—all things that were either general, or related to his life after the serum. Nothing about the Depression, nothing about Brooklyn or New York, nothing about illnesses or even art. Nothing about his earlier life, with Bucky. He’d acted as if his life had begun in Erskine’s lab, and he’d pushed away anything that might have reminded him of before. He’d thought of Bucky, of course—how could he not? But Bucky as a Commando, as a sergeant and a sidekick and a casualty. Not Bucky as what he was: the most important person Steve had ever had in his life. It worked to his advantage that few people even knew he’d known Bucky before the war. No one ever asked about him, or even about what Steve had been like before the serum. He’d just been able to push that stuff out of his mind.

But now Bucky was back, and Steve couldn’t push anymore. When Sam mentioned, in between a tirade on some recent music awards and a scientific discussion on the impending extinction of the black-footed albatross, that Steve’s apartment had been mostly destroyed in the events following Fury’s supposed death, Steve decided to seize the opportunity.

 “I think I want to move back to Brooklyn,” he told Natasha, the next time she came to see him.

“Well, you certainly can’t stay in the hospital forever. Especially since you’re not actually in any danger, and probably weren’t about 24 hours after you got out of the water,” she said, getting up from her seat beside his bed and pulling him up with her. “But you can talk to Fury about that, when you see him. He’s arranged a meeting. Come on.”

 He talked to Fury, who told him that Stark had offered to pay for him to live “somewhere civilized, since he won’t accept my offer of a penthouse suite in Vegas.” Steve wasn’t usually one for living off of charity, at least not anymore, but he figured the Stark family owed him. He also talked to Sam, who was all for taking a few weeks to regroup before figuring out how to find Bucky. So Steve packed his shield and his sketchbook, and rode his bike up I-95, back to the city he’d grown up in.

 “Capsicle!” Tony crowed, when Steve arrived at Stark Tower. “Long time no see. So, Brooklyn?” He gestured for Steve to sit, and then pulled up a series of images on one of his massive interactive screens. They resolved themselves into 3-D models of various apartments, which he flicked across the room, to where Steve had slid himself onto one of Tony’s countless identical white couches.

“Yeah, I just figured it was time to come back,” Steve replied, trying to figure out how to rotate a model of a five-room walk-up.

“Well, you know what they say; you can’t resist New York forever. It’ll always find you and drag you back, whether you like it or not.” Tony sent two more models flying his way, and then threw himself down next to Steve.

“Do they say that? That sounds kinda sinister.” Steve gave up on the walk-up, and shifted his attempts to a townhouse.

“Hey, I’m not a writer,” Tony shrugged, “but I am an extremely rich man who is about to buy you an apartment, if you’ll tell me which one.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, “It’s hard to tell just from these models. Especially since I have to assume the actual apartments won’t be blue and transparent.”

“It’s a weird city. You never know. Hey, this one’s got an artist’s studio!” He called up a model of a large loft. “And it’s a brownstone. Very hip.”

“I could live in a brownstone,” said Steve, pulling the image closer to him. He turned it this way and that, trying to imagine his day-to-day, back in Brooklyn.

“Great. Jarvis? Call my realtor. Tell her to close the deal on the brownstone and pull out the offers on all the others.” Tony paused. “No, actually, not the one above the take-out place. I liked that one.”

“I thought New York real estate was supposed to be tough these days,” Steve said, still examining the model of his new home.

“Not when you hang with the cool, extremely rich kids.” Tony banished the rest of the models back to his computer. “Uh, also, you should know that Stark Industries will be furnishing you with state-of-the-art security. As well as furnishing you with, well, furniture.”

Steve wasn’t surprised. “Can I see the weapons you’re planning on building into my home? Or is it going to be a welcome-home scavenger hunt?”

“Relax, it’s some motion sensors, some cameras, an alarm, that stuff. You can’t be too careful, especially now that—” Tony stopped.

“—now that Bucky’s back,” Steve finished. Once again, he wasn’t surprised the conversation had gone this way.

“—now that you’re being targeted by a rogue cyborg super-assassin, is what I was going to say.”

Steve stayed quiet for a few seconds. To his credit, Tony looked slightly uncomfortable. “We don’t know that he’s still targeting me,” Steve said, finally. “Zola’s gone, and so is Pierce.”

“But you have no real way of finding out. And meanwhile, you have to be able to keep him out, if or most likely when he does come for you.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” said Steve, slowly. He pulled the image of his new home back up to his face, realizing something. “I’m waiting for him.”

“Again, what?”

“Ever since I woke up, I’ve refused to come back to Brooklyn. I wouldn’t even stay long after the Battle. I avoided it. Now I’m moving back. And not just moving back,” he said, speaking more quickly as the pieces of the past few days put themselves together. “I’m moving back into our old neighborhood, into a building that looks like the ones we lived in.”

“Look,” Tony interrupted, “I’m not one to stand in the way of you reclaiming your past, but this seems like a really, really terrible idea. I mean, if Brooklyn is where you lived with Bucky, then it’ll be the first place he’ll come to find you. He’ll know right away where you are.”

“Bucky will know. The Winter Soldier won’t.”

“Oh.”

Steve knew his plan wasn’t perfect. Tony had been right, he had no real way of knowing what Bucky remembered or Winter Soldier knew. But it made sense, in a way. Steve had been living in DC and avoiding Brooklyn like the plague when Alexander Pierce had given Winter Soldier his orders. There had been no reason for Pierce to mention that Steve was from Brooklyn, or that he might end up there. Bucky, on the other hand, would never have dreamed of Steve’s living anywhere else. In fact, they’d had conversations on that very topic before, Steve remembered. Both of them had sworn always to come back to Brooklyn. He’d forgotten that, until now. It helped, to remember.

Tony came through with his promise of both security and furniture. He installed a vast and mind-boggling array of gizmos in Steve’s walls and windows, while Pepper helped Steve navigate consignment shops and upscale “home-design” stores. Steve himself picked out a collection of prints, Dutch Old Masters mostly, which he hung on the walls of his new apartment. He even managed to find some authentic old posters from what he inevitably thought of as “home.” None of them featured Captain America.

For the second time since he woke up in the future, Steve began to settle in. He started regular runs around the neighborhood, which were usually broken up by long, abrupt pauses when he came across something he thought he recognized from before. He got to know his neighbors, most of whom were too preoccupied by their own lives to recognize him. He set up his canvases in his studio and tried to paint something new, anything new. He punctuated his optimistic, helpful, and forward-looking agenda of cultural catch-up with long stretches of frantic, desperate passivity, when he couldn’t bring himself to do anything besides sit and futilely try to wrap his mind around what the hell had happened to him. Mostly, though, he waited. He waited for weeks, then months, running his plan over in his mind and hoping to god he hadn’t miscalculated.

Finally, unbelievably, after almost three months, he noticed someone was following him.

When he’d first noticed the telltale signs of being observed, he figured Bucky was just being sloppy in his concealment, for whatever reason. Eventually, after a week or so, he realized that the slip-ups were too methodical, too regular to be unplanned. This was Bucky’s way of communicating to Steve. He would appear briefly in the morning when Steve went for his run, a grey shadow between buildings, and sometimes when Steve went on errands. On days when Steve couldn’t force himself to leave the house, he would sometimes glimpse a figure standing across from his window, or the same man passing his front door one too many times. And always, without fail, whenever Steve came back from a mission, he would just be able to make out the shape of a man standing a doorway, two buildings down from his own. Once he realized that it was conscious, he found it comforting.

Gradually, though, the brief glimpses of Bucky passed from reassuring to hopelessly frustrating. Bucky was so close. Steve knew that if he really started running, really got up to his top speed, he could have maybe caught Bucky watching him. He was tempted to do that, especially on the days when this new world seemed too much to handle. A few seconds, and he would have a part of him back. But Steve also knew that if he did that, if he went for Bucky, he would break whatever trust Bucky was starting to develop. It would permanently erase any chance Steve had of getting Bucky back for good.

If Steve kept quiet, he might not ever have Bucky back. If he said or did something, he certainly wouldn’t. It took Steve a while to realize that his problem was not only serious; it was familiar. In an eerie way, he felt the same as he had done more than seventy-five years ago, when he and Bucky were together in Brooklyn, and Steve couldn’t bring himself to tell his best and only friend what he really thought of him. He’d felt the same hopelessness and frustration then, and he hadn’t known what to do about it. The difference was, back then it had been Bucky who had ended his frustration by making the first move. Now, he wasn’t sure if Bucky was capable, or even wanted to. Steve found the whole situation an ironically perfect example of life in the future: almost exactly the same as it was in the past, but at least a hundred times more painful and complicated.

Steve still hadn’t decided what to do about Bucky one evening when he found himself walking home much later than usual. He’d met up with Sam in a restaurant in Manhattan, and they’d talked until after dark. He made his way home in a city that somehow looked more like home than ever, shrouded in shadows. Steve’s street was quiet, and he made it to his door without even seeing Bucky’s telltale shadow. Pulling his keys from his pocket, Steve once again felt a wave of frustration wash over him. He was stagnating. He was going to spend the rest of his life thirty feet away from the man he was in love with, and he couldn’t seem to make anything happen about that. He never should have come back to Brooklyn, never should have let Bucky find him, never—

He stopped. He looked to his right. He examined. He remembered.

 

“This is entirely and completely your fault, you jackass.” Bucky leaned against the wall of the train depot, heels knocking against the worn wooden siding.

“My fault? Who’s bright idea was it to come out to the sticks in the first place?” Steve shot back. He was propped next to his friend, examining the timetable posted on the side of the building.

“Firstly, Indiana is not the sticks, you shameless city slicker—”

“Right, like you’ve been past Jersey before—”

“—and I was born here, stupid, that counts, and secondly—”

“—yeah, you’re a regular Buffalo Bill, buddy—”

“—secondly, shut your trap, you can’t blame a guy for wanting to visit his roots once in a while. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. My ma practically never shut up about this place.” Bucky stopped kicking. Steve turned towards him.

“I know. Yeah, I know.” He reached up and put a hand on his taller friend’s shoulder.

“I’m alright,” said Bucky.

“I know,” Steve replied, not removing his hand. “And we’re gonna find a way to get back to Brooklyn.”

“We’d better,” responded Bucky, “or I’ll never forgive you for giving away our last few dollars to those Oakies.”

Steve looked down. “They needed it more than us, Buck. You know that,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a saint, I get it.” Bucky swung his arm over Steve’s shoulder. “But that still ain’t going to help us get back home any time soon. You can’t buy a train ticket with good deeds.”

“Well…” Steve bit his lip, and looked up at Bucky through his lashes. “Maybe we don’t need tickets.”

Bucky shook his head, laughing. “Pal, I can’t figure you out. You’re a saint one minute, and a lawbreaker the next.” He used the hand not currently resting on Steve’s shoulders to mess with his friend’s hair, until Steve pushed it away.

“Riding the rails every now and then ain’t hurting anyone,” said Steve. He slid his eyes back to Bucky. “And I figure you know me better than anybody.”

Bucky laughed again, more softly this time. “Yeah, I figure that too.”

 As it turned out, hiding in a boxcar in the back of the train that passed through the little Indiana station was not as easy as it appeared. Bucky and Steve huddled together behind a few old crates while big, thuggish guards checked every car for bums trying to catch a free ride. Steve almost sneezed right when a guard passed by their hiding place, but managed to keep it back just in time. Once the two men felt the train start to move under them, they breathed a sigh of relief.

“First time takin’ advantage of this fine mode of transport, boys?” An old, worn voice sounded from somewhere within the car. Bucky, who had just started to stretch his legs out past the crate they’d hidden behind, jerked back so fast he almost hit Steve in the stomach.

“Who was that?” Steve demanded into the darkness of the boxcar. Steve could tell it had come from the corner directly across from them. He thought he could just make out a pair of eyes, glinting as if half-shut.

He made to stand up, but Bucky was faster. He stepped in front of Steve, and called again, “Who said that? Come out so we can see you. C’mon, I know you’re there!”

“Alright, alright, calm down, son.” The eyes came into view first, green and hard, followed by a weathered face and a sharp nose. The man was surprisingly tall, broad-shouldered, and not nearly as old as he sounded. Steve felt Bucky stiffen, ready for a fight. The man saw this, and chuckled. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, boys. I’da had plenty of time to do that already, if that was what I was fixin’ to do. You two ain’t exactly the quietest.” He sat down again, resting his back against a dusty wooden crate. His clothes were as sun-weathered as his skin, and he wore no shoes.

Steve could tell Bucky was about to do something stupid, so he decided not to give him the chance. He nudged his friend aside and stepped closer to the man. “We’re just trying to get home, mister. We’re sorry if we bothered you.”

“Yeah, and who are you, anyway?” Bucky shot, from behind Steve.

“Simpkins is my name, Joe Simpkins. I been riding the rails goin’ on three years now.” The man called Simpkins stood up again, offering his calloused hand to Steve. Steve took it, and almost had his hand crushed in a hearty shake. Bucky just watched. “If you boys are lookin’ for a cheap way home, you’ve found it. Nothin’ finer than an empty boxcar for a man with no dough. But there are a few things you’d be better off learnin’ before you continue your ride.”

“Like what?” said Bucky. He leaned one elbow on the edge of a tall box, the picture of disinterested annoyance.

“Well, first off, don’t mouth off to every tramp you meet,” said Simpkins, just a hint of humor coloring his annoyance. “That’s a surefire way to get stabbed ‘fore you ever have a chance to get home.”

Bucky pushed off his box, indignant. “Is that a threat? ‘Cause if it was—”

“Ignore my pal, he’s just a moron,” Steve interrupted, moving to sit across from the tramp. Bucky snorted in annoyance, and resumed his previous position. “I’m Steve, and that’s Bucky. We’d sure appreciate any help you can give us.”

“Since you ask nicely, son,” Simpkins shot a brief glance at Bucky, before continuing, “I’ll tell ya what I know. This train only goes so far as Chicago. From there you’ll be needin’ to catch the next morning train to New York, if my ears ain’t decievin’ me and you fellas really are from Brooklyn.”

“They ain’t, and we are,” said Steve. “How long do we have ‘till Chicago?”

“Round about four hours. You boys can settle in. ‘T ain’t a bad ride. Once the sun starts to set you get a right fine view.” The tramp leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Steve felt himself relax, no longer afraid of the interloper and lulled by the motion of the train. He turned his head to glance over at Bucky, who was still standing. The older boy sighed, more amused than exasperated, and came to sit next to Steve, leaning against him so that their heads bumped together gently along with the motion of the train. Neither of them spoke.

Bucky fell asleep about two hours into the ride, exhausted from unfamiliar surroundings and familiar grief. Steve stayed awake, staring at the countryside passing by the boxcar, Bucky’s head on his shoulder.

“End of the line, boys!” Simpkins’ voice jerked Steve out of his half-sleep. Looking up, he realized the view outside the boxcar had shifted from rolling countryside to harsh, industrial scenes. The light, which had been fading steadily as they travelled, was nearly gone, and the world outside the car was now lit by dingy, yellowed streetlights. They had reached Chicago.

Steve nudged Bucky’s head off of his shoulder. “C’mon, Sleepin’ Beauty, time to end our ride.” He gingerly rose to his feet, muscles sore from hours of sitting.  
Beside him, Bucky groaned as he slowly stretched out his back. “I’m up, I’m up. Wouldn’t wanna miss our stop, so to speak.”

Simpkins collected a small bundle he’d carried beside him on the train, and stood by the open door. “If you boys would kindly follow me once we done disembark’d, I’d be glad to offer you a place to lay your heads ‘till the New York train tomorrow.”

“That’d be swell,” said Bucky, to Steve’s surprise. “And I’d like to thank you for not murderin’ us as we slept.” He went to stand next to Simpkins, his previous animosity replaced with typical charm.

“’T wasn’t no thing,” Simpkins replied, and jumped off the train.

“Well, now or never,” Steve sighed, looking out the door. Bucky just grinned, grabbed Steve’s hand, and pulled them both off of the moving train.

After the two of them recovered from something of a rough landing, they found themselves being escorted by Simpkins through the large, dingy rail yard to what had once been a vacant lot, just beside the depot. Now, the scrubby patch of ground was filled with worn tents, makeshift metal shacks, and even a few cardboard boxes turned on their sides and used as shelter. The inhabitants of the shantytown, men with tattered clothes and heavy expressions, clustered around an old oil drum filled with fire. As Steve and his companions approached, a few of the fire-watchers turned to greet Simpkins, and give him space in their little circle.

“Gentlemen,” said Simpkins, addressing the assembled bums, “I encountered these upstandin’ fellas on the way here, and offered them the hospitality of our modest camp for the evenin’. This here’s Bucky, and this’s Steve. They’re lookin’ to get back to Brooklyn in the mornin’.” Bucky and Steve shook the hands of their new campmates, most of whom seemed happy to welcome them to their fire.

“Have a seat, boys,” called an old, rumpled-looking man from across the fire, indicating with a kingly gesture the various piles of trash and logs that served as seats. “It’s a fine night, and your train don’t set out ‘till nigh six o’clock.”

Steve and Bucky decided to crouch on an old iron girder, close enough to the fire to be lit by its glow, but still outside of the circle, in the stillness of the summer evening. Steve sat close to Bucky, surprisingly tired from their journey and glad for the familiar face of his closest, and only, companion.

“This ain’t so bad, Steve,” said Bucky softly, staring off towards the fire. “Almost reminds me of home.”

Steve snorted. “Don’t tell me you want to go back to that Hooverville by the river, Buck. That was not a winter I’d like to repeat anytime soon.”

Bucky chuckled. “Nah, I didn’t mean that. I’d be crazy to wish we didn’t have a roof over our heads, especially since it’s kinda a new development. I just meant—it’s nice. Here. We’re here, us, and no one’s—we’re— it’s just kinda, y’know, quiet.”

“That was some speech, Shakespeare, practically poetic,” Steve jibed, absentmindedly trying to draw figures in the dirt with his toes. Despite his teasing, Bucky’s words had made him feel warm inside, as if they were safe back in their tiny apartment in Brooklyn.

“Shut up, lunkhead, you know what I mean,” Bucky shot back, kicking Steve idly in the shins.

“Hey, watch it, you’re ruining my masterpiece,” Steve laughed, as Bucky accidentally kicked dust over Steve’s half-defined dirt circles.

“Oh, excuse me, Leonardo,” Bucky replied, leaning over to plant his feet squarely in the middle of the drawings. Steve made a show of trying to push Bucky away, urging him back to his side of the girder even as he moved closer to his bulk and warmth. Bucky, meanwhile, busied himself shuffling his feet around in the dirt so aggressively he raised a large cloud of dust. Steve’s laughs turned to coughs as he felt his chest seize up, and Bucky’s face dropped like a stone. “Oh god, Steve, I’m so sorry, shit, I didn’t even think—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, calm down,” Steve choked out, coughs subsiding. “Not everything is gonna kill me, Buck.” In his momentary panic, Bucky had grabbed Steve around the shoulders and held him close, his other hand resting on Steve’s cheek. Now he was close enough to feel Steve’s slowly steadying breaths on his face. They were both smart enough and old enough to know they shouldn’t be this close in public, but as Steve’s mouth parted slightly and Bucky swallowed carefully they found that neither of them had the strength to move away. Years of self-preservation prevented them from doing anything besides hold each other, and even that seemed overwhelmingly intimate in the soft dark of the night.

“Want me to teach ya some proper drawin’?”

They pushed away from each other at lightning speed as the old man who had welcomed them earlier sat down on the ground before them. Steve’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest with shock, but he swallowed and breathed and kept his voice calm as he answered, “What?”

“You were drawin’ before. I can teach ya somethin’ useful.” The old man, seemingly unaware of the moment he had interrupted, picked up a stick from beside him and gestured to Steve, “I’ll teach ya the code, if ya like.”

“What? What code?” Steve responded, still disoriented. “I mean, sorry, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“The code, boy, the hobo code,” said the old man, drawing a few lines in the dust. “Ain’t nothin’ so useful as a way to get messages between friends. You use this code, every hobo passes by your house will know you’re a friend.”

“You use a code?” said Steve, interested now. He liked codes and puzzles, he’d always been good at them.

“Yessir, we do. A few scratches on the side of a fence or a barn wall’ll tell you whether a house is friendly or dangerous, where there’s food or work to be had, and when to leg it from the police.” The man used his stick to draw a half-circle with a dot beneath it in the dirt. “Fr’instance, this here means there are police in the area, so you’d best keep moving.” Steve moved closer, and Bucky moved with him, clustering over the man’s impromptu lesson. He drew a second symbol, an empty circle. “This one means nothing to be had here, and with an x in the middle, it means good food. Change it this way, and it means something else…”

Hours passed, and the firelight gave way to pale sunlight. The man went off sometime before dawn to try and find work for the day, along with many of the other tramps. Bucky and Steve stayed by their girder, practicing the figures the man had taught them.

“Look, Steve,” said Bucky. He had drawn a figure in the dirt, a little cartoonish cat. “This one’s you.”

“‘A kind lady lives here?’” Steve interpreted, squinting at the drawing. “I ain’t no dame, Buck.” He turned to his friend, a hint of a frown furrowing his brow.

“I meant ‘cause you’re kind, jerk,” Bucky replied, seeing Steve’s discomfort. The very farthest corner of his mouth twitched into a shadow of an ironic grimace. “I’m aware you ain’t a dame.” He pursed his lips, considering the cat. “Maybe it just needs an adjustment, to fully capture the scope of your kind character.” He solemnly looked across at Steve, brandished the stick, and drew a large mustache on the cat. “Perfect.”

Steve burst out laughing, and leaned over for a kiss.

  


Seventy-odd years later, Steve had almost forgotten how to laugh that hard. He stood in silence for a few seconds, gently tracing the little drawing on the side of his doorframe. It was a small cat, with a large mustache drawn on. Steve pulled a pencil from his back pocket, tapped it against his lips speculatively, and carefully etched a reply beneath Bucky’s message. He unlocked his front door, disarmed his security, and began to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Hobo code! It's a real thing. Pretty cool.  
> This was supposed to be much shorter and much fluffier than it is. Sorry about that. I really like exploring Steve and Bucky during the Depression.  
> I don't actually know how long it would take to go by train from Indiana to Chicago. I suspect it would be less than four hours.


End file.
